


Masquerade

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Historical, M/M, good omens exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-02
Updated: 2006-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1210570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Venice, serenity must be won.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masquerade

**The Republic of Venice, 1750**  
  
They came to Venice by way of the sea.  
  
Aziraphale had not been there in years, though the place had kept up appearances. The canals flowed before the din of independence, and the waters were oiled with offal and laced by cabbage leaves and fish heads; the once majestic façades of the palazzos seemed more at home within the vile stretches of mud than upon the land.  
  
Their gold-crested gondola bobbed and surged, and the gondolier hummed a dirge.  
  
“It hasn’t changed at all, has it?” Aziraphale wondered aloud.  
  
Crowley shrugged with an easy smile. “I knew it wouldn’t,” he said.  
  
“Ah, yes.” Aziraphale fingered the fringe on the silk cushion which rested between them, shaking his head as he watched the whorl of the narrow streets. “I daresay one would have difficulty finding a more wretched hive of scum and--”  
  
“Look at _that_.”  
  
Aziraphale looked. “Good heavens,” he said. “I wonder what it could be.”  
  
A crowd had amassed by the parapet ahead of them, and Aziraphale began to raise himself up to get a better view before Crowley pulled back on his arm. “Ouf!” he cried, falling back to the bench with a thump.  
  
“If you don’t quit moving about you’ll have us over,” Crowley grumbled.  
  
“I was _not_ going to have us over.”  
  
“Oh, but I should hate for you to muss your lovely new suit, angel,” Crowley said with a short laugh, “and then have you complaining for the rest of the week that it’s gone and contaminated everything in your portmanteau, regardless of how many times you attempt to miracle the stench away.”  
  
Aziraphale sniffed, “Really, my dear, if you hadn’t--”  
  
“Mother of God!” cried the gondolier. He pushed the oar against a pike in such a way as to very nearly quell the question of whose fault a sudden spill into the water would be.  
  
Aziraphale held on to the sides of the gondola with a white-knuckled grip, and Crowley’s hand skirted back across his arm. Ahead, a trio of uniformed youths hoisted a bloated mass of rags and appendages from the canal. The soldiers were slight of build, and their feathered caps fluttered in the midmorning breeze; their faces were pinched and despairing.  
  
“What is it?” the gondolier whispered. “Surely not a man.”  
  
“No,” Aziraphale said, and gestured idly.   
  
A cloaked constable appraised the heap for a moment before whisking the handkerchief from his nose. He gasped and swore audibly when the sodden cloths tumbled apart, revealing a tangle of white chrysanthemums; they glinted like bits of polished stone in the sunlight before returning to the water.  
  
The soldiers began to chide each other as the constable moved forward and waved his hands to dispel the crowd. “That is enough for today,” he yelled. “Return to your business. Away, now, all of you.”  
  
Aziraphale turned back to Crowley, who let go of his arm with a grimace.   
  
“Show-off,” he said.  
  
“No sense in sentencing a holiday before it’s yet laid its case.”  
  
“Oh, I see. You’ve agreed to call this a holiday, then?” Crowley asked. “Fancy that.”  
  
“That’s not what I meant,” Aziraphale said, feeling his cheeks flush. “We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for _your_ cagey bit of business which I may or may not happen to take a slight interest in.”  
  
“I thought you were here to see the churches.”  
  
“Yes. And the churches,” Aziraphale agreed. “The churches were a given.”  
  
The gondolier was all the while muttering beneath his breath, and he made the sign of the cross before saying, “Very bad sign, signori. Very ill prophecy.”  
  
Aziraphale raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. “Er, I beg your pardon?”  
  
“I will have no more riders on this day.”  
  
“Didn’t you see? It was only a bit of fun,” Aziraphale said. “It _is_ Boxing Day, after all.”  
  
“Some fun,” Crowley said acridly.  
  
The gondolier shook his head. “You must disembark now, I am sorry.”  
  
“But you can’t just _leave_ us here,” Aziraphale protested, and shot Crowley a concerned glance. “Can he?”  
  
“I am sorry,” the gondolier said again. He swung his rope onto a sagging dock and waited for Crowley and Aziraphale to amble up the staircase. Sweat beaded beneath his liveried hat and across his brow, and he gestured sweepingly with one long-fingered hand. “Your belongings, signori: do not forget them.”  
  
The gondola that had been hauling their trunks hovered closely behind, and the dock attendant pulled them ashore. “Signor?”  
  
“Right, right.” Crowley handed him a coin of negligible value. “Thanksss.”  
  
“Shockingly bad form,” Aziraphale scoffed. “I cannot imagine receiving such service at home. Do you realize the ramifications of that sort of superstition in this day and age?” He looked about him, at the teeming currents of humanity and vice, at the veiled, nameless denizens of the alleyways and at the merchants of the cobbled streets.  
  
“Yeah,” Crowley said, and started forward with his portmanteau.  
  
***  
  
“Two rooms?” The hotel manager glanced between them, a smile beneath his lashes.  
  
“Yes,” Crowley said, with finality. “I specifically _requested_ two rooms, but if you’ve not saved them, my companion and I shall be forced to find other accommodations.”  
  
“Of course, of course. Do not worry,” he said. “It is all written here in my book. See? I was merely making sure.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
The manager waited for Crowley to sign the register, and as Aziraphale moved to follow, he saw that no less than two dozen Mr. Smiths of London had checked in during the past day. He puzzled over the columns marked Purpose, Country of Origin, and Final Destination before scrawling his own entry: _A. Fell; London, ENGLAND; Lido, Venezia; Well-mannered festivities, bathing, sight-seeing, &c Age: 27. _  
  
“That will be fifteen ducats. Each.”  
  
While Crowley paid, Aziraphale returned his attention to his surroundings.  
  
To be sure, the hotel was grand enough. The ceilings were high and the windows were long; the wide staircases were capped with gold-flecked marble. A fountain played in the courtyard, a mandolin played in the hall.  
  
Everything seemed dappled by sunlight, though the tang of brine hung like a heavy specter in the air, and dark secretions dampened the walls.  
  
“Signor?” A gaunt bellman materialized by Aziraphale’s side. He had already picked up Crowley’s case, and with his free hand he pointed to Aziraphale’s.  
  
“Oh.” Aziraphale nodded, and set it down for him. “Thank you.”  
  
The bellman hefted and strained, huffed and groaned as he tackled the bulky weight of it.  
  
Aziraphale smiled apologetically. “It is _so_ hard to know what to pack for these types of excursions,” he said.  
  
“And bricks never go out of style, do they?” Crowley dangled a key in front of Aziraphale’s nose. “Rooms two-forty-seven and two-forty-nine.”  
  
“Are they adjoining?”  
  
And indeed they were.  
  
After testing the mattress and determining it to be a quite forthright and firm workspace, Aziraphale opened the latches on his portmanteau and began spreading its contents across the duvet. He had a stack of bedside reading and a small sketchbook, several suits of clothes, a rather nice bottle of wine, and a tinderbox. He also had an array of maps, each one varying greatly in age and artistic embellishment.  
  
“Can you _believe_ these beds?” Crowley’s voice piped from the neighboring room. Without knocking, he poked his head around the corner of Aziraphale’s doorframe. “Like bloody slabs. Worse than slabs, but I suppose you’ll be all right, being but a tender lad of twenty-seven.”   
  
“One is always as young as one feels, my dear, and I’ll _hardly_ be using it in the manner its makers intended it for.”  
  
“Must be all that salt-air,” Crowley said, crossing to the window with a sidelong glance. “Those maps won’t do you much good.”  
  
“What d’you mean?” Aziraphale frowned and stared down at one. It was fraught around the edges and emblazoned with a royal seal in the center; it predated the discovery of the New World. “See? Here’s the Chiesa di Santa Maria dei Miracoli. ‘Elegantly faced with polychrome marble, this rare Venetian jewel was designed by the Lombardi family in the mid-fifteenth century,’” he read aloud from a pocket-sized guidebook. “They say the walls are the color of pink candy floss. And here--,” he pointed back to the map, “--is the Chiesa di San Zaccaria. It even holds his corpse. Well, isn’t _that_ quaint.”  
  
“Ngk.”  
  
“Oh, come. Your people have their own guilty little pleasures, surely.”  
  
“Yes,” Crowley said quite simply. “They’re called the House of Commons.”  
  
“Ha, ha.” Aziraphale joined him by the window, breathing deeply. “Well! Shall we freshen up before luncheon or set out straight away? This view makes me absolutely famished.”  
  
***  
  
Sardines, Aziraphale soon found, were not exactly to his taste.  
  
“Looking a bit green around the gills there, angel,” Crowley said, and smothered his flatbread in butter. “I hope you’ll still be well enough for your jolly cathedral tour.”  
  
“Certainly...” Aziraphale trailed off and held a napkin against his mouth, coughing roughly. His belly rumbled in an unfamiliar and not wholly welcome fashion. “Certainly I will. It was only a bit of moldy cheese, I expect.”  
  
“Do you want the rest of my oysters, then? I don’t care what that Casanova chap says. One would have to be dashedly desperate to eat five dozen of them in one go.”  
  
Aziraphale overturned his chair as he darted from the table. Twenty minutes later, he came to an abrupt understanding as to why Crowley had so objected to the beds.  
  
***  
  
“No, I’ve _not_ finished yet.” Crowley turned back to the counter, glanced up and down at the multitude of masks which festooned the wall, and pointed to a glinting blue domino. “Let me see that one,” he said.  
  
The shopkeeper climbed onto his stool and retrieved the mask by balancing on tiptoes. “Here you are, signor. This is a very popular variety with gentlemen such as yourself.”  
  
“Hmm.” Crowley held it up to his face and swept around with a rakish bow. “What do you think of this?”  
  
“To be honest,” Aziraphale said without looking, “I think it’s a bit silly.”   
  
“Silly? How so?”  
  
“Oh.” He unfolded his arms from across his chest. The mask was adorned with sequins and hung with ribbons. A fine line of opal beads edged the brow, rubies clung to the temples, and starry bits of silver curled about the mouth. It colored Crowley’s face with a sheen of reflected light, and his eyes did not blink. He looked well, Aziraphale thought. He looked more than well. He looked magnificently dashing and offhandedly spry, and Aziraphale felt something that was not quite alarm settle into the pit of his stomach. It was a better feeling than the pain inflicted by the sardines, but only just so. He cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose it’s preferable to that dreadful thing you had on a moment ago.”  
  
“Now, now. I thought you liked the last one,” Crowley said, and stared into a long-necked looking-glass as he swung the laces around to the back of his head.  
  
“I said it was monstrous.”  
  
Crowley chuckled. “It was _supposed_ to be monstrous,” he said. “Imps are monstrous.”  
  
“Why would you want to look like an imp?”  
  
“Dunno. Why would you want to look like an angry schoolmarm?”  
  
Aziraphale sighed. He didn’t particularly want to look like anything, though it could not be denied that some of the masks were better than others.  
  
There were masks for ladies and masks for lords. There were masks that looked like dogs and masks that looked like mice. There were dragons and half-moons and bald-headed friars. There were insects and angels, stags and fawns, mages and magi and studded pagan gods. Some had long noses and others had rosy cheeks; some scowled terribly and gleamed in the fickle candlelight.  
  
“What about that one?” Aziraphale asked, after a moment.  
  
Crowley looked up. “Which?”  
  
“Just there. I believe it’s a marmot.”  
  
“Please tell me you’re joking.”  
  
Aziraphale shrugged. “I was only trying to help,” he said, a trifle defensively, and lifted a heavily lacquered, long whiskered bishop’s mask from its stand. He held it to his face, glanced into the glass, and brought it down again with a convulsive shudder.  
  
“Looks great on you,” Crowley said, matter-of-factly.  
  
“Don’t start.”  
  
Crowley pointed to a leathery, long-faced mask behind the counter. “And that one?”  
  
“That one, signor,” the shopkeeper cut in softly, and winked, “was crafted from the pitted heart of the sinner.”  
  
“Was it really?” Crowley laughed, and looked to Aziraphale. “Apropos, eh?”  
  
Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Really, my dear fellow, I’ve not the foggiest idea of what you mean.”  
  
Crowley smiled and handed the domino back to the shopkeeper. “I’ll take this one,” he said, resting his elbows on the counter.  
  
“Very good, signor.” With a nod, he wrapped it in several sheets of vermillion tissue and slipped it into a box. “Carnevale begins this evening, you know, and there will be a great many joyous gatherings across the city.”  
  
“Oh?” Crowley inquired, an air of knowingness seeping into his voice.  
  
“Yes. The Contessa Claudia is always most eager to make the acquaintance of Englishmen.” He paused. “You are Englishmen, are you not?”  
  
“We are.”  
  
“Yes,” the shopkeeper said again. And then: “Most eager.”  
  
Aziraphale arched a brow. “You _know_ the Contessa?”  
  
“Know the Contessa?” He seemed ready to erupt into peals of laughter. “Me?”  
  
“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’” Crowley said, retrieving his purse from the folds of his cloak. “How much for the mask?”  
  
The shopkeeper bared his teeth in a grin. Outside, the bells were chiming six.  
  
“I suppose we ought to not linger long in our rooms if we’re to make it to the palace on time,” Crowley said offhandedly as they stepped out of the shop.  
  
“Palace?” Aziraphale frowned. “What do you mean?”  
  
“The Contessa lives in a palace, angel, and no doubt the ball will be held there.”  
  
“Oh, no. No, no. I’ll not be attending.”  
  
“Whyever not?” Crowley looked genuinely puzzled. “You’re the one who’s always going on about how demanding the Christmas season can be for you ethereal types. What else did we come here for if not to shed our cares a while?”  
  
“And carouse with drunken mortals? I think not.”  
  
“You have something better to do?”  
  
“I’ve still not seen the Chiesa di San Zaccaria,” Aziraphale contended. The evening was growing dim, and the streets were cloaked in ruddy twilight. A band of masked, tricorned vagabonds drank wine from a jug and sang a song of love and murder across the canal. Perhaps it was merely a trick of medieval acoustics, but they sounded quite jovial in spite of the wretched squalor which surrounded them.  
  
Crowley snorted. “And that rotten corpse?”  
  
“Naturally.”  
  
“But can’t you go tomorrow?”  
  
“Tomorrow is _Sunday_ , my dear. The crowds are sure to be unbearable.”  
  
“You won’t go to the ball?”  
  
“No,” Aziraphale heard himself say. His voice had become a stranger in his throat. It could not be helped. “Of course I won’t go.”  
  
“You’re certain?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Suit yourself,” Crowley said. If there was disappointment in his tone, it was but a trace. “I’ll see you later, then.”  
  
“Have a nice time,” Aziraphale replied, but Crowley had already retreated into the mist, his parcel held tightly beneath one arm and his boots echoing against the slick stones.  
  
***  
  
One glance around the ballroom was enough to tell Aziraphale that Crowley was not there. He did not know whether Crowley had already come and gone, or whether he had not yet arrived. “If he ever _will_ arrive,” he corrected himself glumly, and sipped his wine.  
  
His mask had begun to itch. Now and again he imagined blotches of red spots springing up across his cheeks and brow; he supposed it was to do with the feathers, for after much deliberation he had bought himself the dark mask of a winter starling. The shopkeeper assured him that it suited his complexion a treat, but he remained unconvinced even as he lingered before the looking-glass in his room for nearly an hour. In that time he had paced to the window on several occasions, had knocked on each of Crowley’s doors, had walked up and down the staircase in the hope of running into him with a, “Gracious, my dear boy, but I didn’t expect you’d be back so soon. Now, about that ball...” But it was no use.  
  
A servant paused by his side, proffering a tray. “A bit more wine, signor?”  
  
Aziraphale did not need to be asked twice. “Thank you,” he said, and exchanged his empty glass for a full one. He looked about himself again. Every edge seemed suddenly blurred, softened as though blotted with fine parchment. The chandeliers glowed in his eyes and the laughter of a hundred merry revelers fell in his ears like shards of fire.  
  
Once or twice he spotted the Contessa in the midst of the throng, but she was wont to vanish as quickly as she had appeared. After all, it had taken little in the way of persuasion to gain entrance into her home, and she seemed at once delighted to make his acquaintance, but his presence was soon forgotten against the sweeping tableau of silk and brocade and lace. He was but another masked figure, one who lacked the artfulness of some and the careful anonymity of others; he knew this. He realized that to wait any longer would be folly.  
  
But then again, no: the night was young. And then again, there was Crowley in his bejeweled domino mask beside the far wall. He was flanked on either side by youths of impeccable beauty.  
  
Or at least Aziraphale supposed them to be beautiful.  
  
They were, of course, wearing masks: one preened with the bright plumage of a peacock and the other searched back and forth with the long, wary beak of a rook. Crowley tapped the first on the shoulder and whispered something into his ear; the second shook in a flurry of delight. Their cheeks were flushed with pleasure and drink, and Crowley raised a hand to summon the servant.  
  
Aziraphale finished his own glass and deposited it on a gilded sill.  
  
It took several moments to reconcile the pace of his thoughts with the measure of his feet. He was forced to lean against the wall midway between the potted orange trees and the string quartet, and again behind a gaggle of gossiping squires. He focused his eyes, clenched his fists, and took a deep breath.  
  
“I say,” he said in a slow, slurred voice. Crowley looked up; the boys looked away. “Do you know where the loo is?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Do you know where the loo is?”  
  
“No.” Crowley shook his head and swung his arm around the peacock’s neck. “Sorry.”  
  
“I should ask the Contessa, if I were you,” said the rook disinterestedly.  
  
The peacock’s black eyes traced up and down Aziraphale’s meager costume. “Yes, ask the Contessa,” he laughed.  
  
“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” Aziraphale broke in. With more concern for emphasis than accuracy, he reached for Crowley’s doublet and pulled him into a kiss.  
  
For several breathless moments, they stood together, arms clenched as though in preparation for battle and legs held together with the habit of a dance. Crowley’s lips were warm and soft, and his tongue tasted of wine as it twined about his own. Aziraphale pressed against him, chest and stomach and groin, and the fractured rhythm in his pulse made his head ache. Crowley’s fingers fumbled with the fastenings of Aziraphale’s mask. He winced.  
  
It was over as soon as it began, and he broke away and steadied himself enough to allow the swelling tide of the crowd to swallow him utterly. Suddenly sober, he fled from the ballroom; he ran out from the palace, paused to catch his bearings beside the canal, and then vanished into the night as though he had never been.  
  
***  
  
Shortly after two in the morning, there was a knock upon his door.  
  
“Yes?” Aziraphale cleared his throat. He had been standing by the window and watching for movement on the street for several hours; a chill had long since settled into his bones. Now, he threw himself down on a high-backed, brass-buttoned armchair, and grabbed the nearest book on hand before repeating, “Yes, what is it?”  
  
The door creaked open. Crowley stood on the threshold. “Hi,” he said.  
  
Aziraphale forced his lips into something resembling a smile. “How are you, my dear?”  
  
“Fine, fine.” He took a step into the room. “Just seeing whether your fire was still going. Mine isn’t.”  
  
“Oh.” Aziraphale frowned; the fire was naught but embers, though they relit themselves without too much of a fuss. “There we are.”  
  
“Good,” Crowley said. “That’s good.”  
  
“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “Yes, that is good.”  
  
He thought: Crowley knows what I have done. Then he thought: No, he does not.  
  
“How was the ball?” he asked, after a pause.  
  
“It was garish and decadent and full of the worst sort of miscreants,” Crowley said, rubbing his hands together before the grate. “I was a bit tight, the Contessa was a bore, and a couple of besotted brats made off with my mask. You would’ve _hated_ it.”  
  
“Of course.” For the first time, Aziraphale glanced down to the spine of the book which had lain open at random across his knees. He coughed. It was the Bible.  
  
Evidently, Crowley had already noticed this. “Well, I’ll leave you to your reading,” he said. He seemed to smile, but only fleetingly: it was a movement half-sighted out of the corner of Aziraphale’s eye. There was no telling whether it was ever really there at all.  
  
The door closed with a click; Aziraphale rose again to stand by the window. Below, the canal gleamed like a silver ribbon, and the living seemed outnumbered by ghosts.


End file.
